


A Circuit of Consciousness

by heresie_irisee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pacifist Ending, Pre-Slash, in a subdued kind of way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 03:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14991944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heresie_irisee/pseuds/heresie_irisee
Summary: Immediately following the events of the game, Connor is having some trouble dealing with it all.Hank tries to help.





	A Circuit of Consciousness

**Author's Note:**

> Possibly not quite canon-compliant regarding the inner working of androids, but all about things the game is pretty vague on. Title from Science/Visions by CHVRCHES
> 
> If you have any CC, please share! My fic-writing skills are pretty rusty.

"So, what are you going to do now?"

Connor studied Hank's face. He sounded casual, almost nonchalant, and he'd schooled his expression into a simulacrum of disinterest. It hadn't quite worked. His body language was admirably relaxed, though. Connor might have been fooled, if he hadn't been created for the express purpose of reading people, or if he hadn't been looking closely.

He always looked at Hank closely.

Hank was trying to tread lightly. Possibly, he didn't want to admit he was worried, or possibly he thought acting like Connor's uncertain future didn't matter would keep Connor from – from getting upset, perhaps?

Experimentally, Connor let some of the uncertainty he was feeling show on his face. Hank frowned, and took a step closer, putting a reassuring hand on Connor's shoulder.

Concern, then, and not pride. It was pointless; Connor hadn't needed the reminder. The fact that his position as one of the heads of a rebellion was somewhat tenuous hadn't slipped his mind. A non-insignificant portion of his background processes were currently occupied _worrying_ about it, despite Markus's reassurances. Nevertheless, the circumspection was appreciated. Connor smiled.

"I'm not entirely sure. Cyberlife certainly won't have much use for me now. I should probably keep my head down and skip on filing my reports until further notice," he said, although he knew that wasn't quite what Hank had been asking.

Hank only grunted. If he'd been anyone else, he might have asked what Connor wanted to do. Connor certainly would've.

Connor was strangely relieved Hank wasn't anyone else.

Deviancy – full deviancy – was more difficult than it looked. When he'd still been a machine, trying to imagine it to better track his quarry, he'd pictured the familiar matrix of mission objectives and instructions, twisted to nonsensical orders like creating idols, and painting mazes on walls, and acting in a way that mimicked feelings.

The truth was that there was only an absence. When he processed the world now, there was nothing he hadn't put there.

He hadn't even noticed straight away. He'd followed Markus, and then he'd formulated his plan to infiltrate the Tower the same way he'd have planned out any of his regular missions. It had been touch and go, at times, but straightforward in its own way.

At this particular moment, there was nothing. He'd never felt untethered before, and he couldn't say he enjoyed it much. He didn't even know whether he wanted to talk about it.

"What about you?" He asked instead.

Hank only shot him a puzzled look.

"You're not helping with the evacuation. Are you in trouble with the precinct for antagonizing Agent Perkins?"

"Ha! Right, I _antagonized_ that prick straight in the nose." He shot Connor a grin. It was absolutely self-satisfied, and somewhat bloodthirsty. Connor couldn't help grinning back. "Felt good, you know. Thanks for giving me an excuse."

For all the good it had done. Tracking the deviants down had seemed like his only option. He'd been more than halfway to deviancy by that point, but he'd only been thinking of preventing his own deactivation. And, if he thought about it honestly, he'd wanted to prove himself. He'd _wanted_ to complete his mission, not because it was his mission, but because he'd wanted to be good at his job, and not let anyone down.

If he'd only listened to Hank's doubts. He could have deviated then and there. Markus hadn't needed to induce his deviancy through connection; he'd only given him the slightest push, and he'd deviated himself. If he'd only done it a few hours sooner, Jericho would have been spared.

Hank's hand on his shoulder squeezed slightly. The grin had slipped off his face – and off Connor's, too, he suddenly realised, without any conscious input.

Being a machine really had been much simpler.

"Hey, are you that upset about Agent Whatshisface? I swear to God, if anyone deserved a good kick in the teeth, it was him"

"I'm sure he did. I'm not worried about him."

"Then what _are_ you worried about?" Hank's gaze was searching. "You blinky light's gone yellow."

Had it?

It galled, suddenly. He'd never resented the LED before. It was pointless to resent it now, when it seemed he couldn't even get a handle on his own face.

"The past few days have been a lot to process, that's all. Really," he insisted when Hank only frowned. "It isn't a – a mood ring! It's only saying I'm using a lot of processing power."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but that's just a techy way of saying you've got a lot on your mind. So let me ask again, what are you worrying about?"

Connor closed his eyes. He was strangely conscious of Hank's hand on his shoulder, the weight and shape of it, anchoring him in place. The air was sharp and cool on his tongue, saturated with the aroma of snow. A clean smell, covering the remnants of dubious truck food and the river's pollution, but– 

Connor decided he didn't like snow.

"You didn't answer my question," he said, finally. Hank let his hand drop.

"I don't know why they're evacuating the city in the first place. Not that your little army wasn't impressive and all, but the rebellion's got a good track record on not hurting civilians."

That still wasn't an answer, which Connor did his level best to communicate without saying anything. Hank sighed.

"I was suspended, all right? Pending disciplinary action. It'll probably amount to nothing, it's hardly the worst thing I've done on the job, and I've been a good boy for the past few months."

"And why aren't you being evacuated?"

"Oh, I will be soon enough, if the order still stands. It just seems to me like everyone will be back pretty soon. Seems like a hassle to leave just to come back. I've no interest in moving, and I've got a freezer full of instant dinners to tide me over."

It seemed to Connor that Hank had a reason besides laziness to stay, but he decided to let it slide. On the other hand…

"It might be safer for you to leave. You're not quite a civilian, and we're both somewhat infamous, you know."

"Then I guess it's a good thing you were the one marching at the head of the fucking army that won you the ceasefire."

It wouldn't help as much as it might have. The rebels had been ready – too ready – to embrace the android made to hunt them once he'd shaken off his programming. Convincing them that the human had been the one on their side all along would be more of a challenge.

The risk assessments flashed along Connor's visual matrix, urgent and shifting. Hank couldn't stay in Detroit, not without significant risk to his safety, that was obvious. Still, Connor's processes were attempting to determine the best way to keep him from harm, in a frankly useless level of detail. Most of the variables were too situational to devise a proper course of action, and it would be easier to simply convince Hank to leave.

Connor didn't want to convince Hank to leave. There was a non-zero chance he wouldn't come back.

Hank made an exasperated noise, and stared pointedly at Connor's temple, from which Connor inferred he'd gone amber again. It was possibly that it was deviancy that made him eat up so much processing power on dithering, but on balance, it was more likely that he'd simply gone too long without putting himself into sleep mode.

That was a can of worms he had no interest in opening.

"Anyhow," Hank said, still looking annoyed, "do you feel like getting out of this snow? I'm freezing my balls off here."

Connor's temperature sensors were set to minimal input. He shrugged. "Where to?"

"My place," Hank said. He was making the face that Connor had dubbed _for someone so smart, you're pretty stupid_ , which was refreshingly familiar. "The bars are all closed. And so is everything else."

"Let's go."

***

The car ride, spent in silence except for Hank's heavy metal blaring through the speakers, was equally comfortable. Hank's house hadn't changed much either – some empty bottles and take-out containers had been replaced by new empty bottles and take-out containers, but it had remained, in essence, the same, as all of Detroit had changed around it.

Sumo greeted them with enthusiastic tail-wagging and abundant drooling, but Connor didn't mind. He had no intention on keeping his uniform anyway. Getting himself new clothes was near the top of his to-do list, once business resumed.

Very nearly at the top, in fact, second only to "find out if he was entitled to any money".

Hank collapsed onto his sofa with a sigh, already opening a beer. "It's five o'clock somewhere," he said with a weak chuckle at Connor's raised eyebrows.

In Connor's estimation, that reasoning was 100% bullshit.

Still, pointing it out would conterproducively make Hank defensive, and so he simply sat next to Hank. Sumo soon lay down at his master's feet, his tail still wagging gently.

"You know, I was surprised to hear from you," Hank said after a minute and twelve seconds of silence. "I figured you'd be with the Scooby Gang, leading your new nation."

"If I follow that analogy, would that make _me_ Scooby-doo?" Connor frowned.

Hank snorted into his bottle, then let out something that would be most accurately described as a cackle. "Oh, yes. Yes it would!"

Hank smiled at him then, and Connor smiled back. He'd never seen Hank so relaxed. He always seemed unstable, as if he were always about to explode – or implode – even when he was drunk. Especially when he was drunk.

This was… nice. Connor should try to make Hank laugh more often.

"I helped them get into the Cyberlife system, and we set up an emergency room of sorts inside the tower. There were a lot of wounded. We'll meet up later to work on some propositions for a charter of Android rights, along with whoever else wants to be included." Connor tried to make himself appear comfortable. He'd never had much occasion to relax, before now, but it was what he was meant to be doing. It would help if he knew how. "But that is busywork. We're mostly just waiting for Congress to reach a decision. Our fate is in their hands, really."

Hank wrinkled his nose. _Definite cynicism regarding political institutions_ , chimed Connor's Personal Relations subroutine.

"So you lot are taking over Cyberlife for good, then?"

"That'll depend on who becomes CEO. There's been some mutters about Kamski coming back." Connor could feel his nose wrinkling, ever so slightly. Fascinating, how his face seemed to express every minute emotion now, but inconvenient. He'd need to practice keeping his face blank.

Hank smiled. A pleased smile. Approving. Did he approve of Connor disliking people in general, the way Hank seemed to, or of him disliking Kamski in particular? "You're not a fan of your maker, then?"

"The choice he had me make…" Synthetic memory was perfect. Even now he could recall every nuance in the Chloe's eyes as she looked into his over the barrel of the gun. "I suppose he is my maker in more ways than one."

"What do you mean?"

"If I hadn't made that choice, set back the mission rather than kill her, I don't know…" His mouth felt thick around the words. He swallowed, even though his pseudo-saliva levels didn't require a recycling. "I don't know that my system would have been unstable enough for me to deviate. It might have, but there's no way to tell. I suppose I should be grateful for the push," he shrugged, "but it was still unpleasant."

"Huh. See, I thought he was just being an antisocial kid, messing with his dolls because he could."

"I think it may have been some of both."

"If it's any consolation, I'm pretty damn sure _my_ creator is a dick too."

Connor smiled. Hank toasted him with his bottle.

"I think he wanted us to be sentient from the start," Connor realised. It certainly explained all that Kamski had done that day. The _Kamski_ test. "He wanted to have created thinking, feeling life. If he really does come back, it might make things easier for us. He might be in support of granting us personhood, if only to feed his own ego."

Hank made a sympathetic noise. Connor chose to interpret it as _I'm sorry you have to deal with him for the greater good of androidkind_. Perhaps overly generous, but then again, perhaps not.

"It won't be so bad. I was made to deal with tense conversations. Besides, I think Markus is excited to meet him."

Hank laughed again, but sardonically this time. It wasn't as nice. "That'll be a nasty surprise for him."

"I did relay the interaction to him in full. He's undeterred. I think he has a higher opinion of humans in general than most of us."

"That he does." Hank gestured broadly to the living room, Sumo, and himself, "I've been bored half out of my fucking mind cooped up in here, and reduced to watching the news. They keep replaying all of Markus's speeches, as though we haven't already seen all of them a hundred times. That guy really likes his speeches."

"He does. He says he picked up the habit from his – his previous owner."

Hank shot him an inquisitive look. 

"Carl Manfred, the painter," Connor elaborated. "Apparently, he was quite given to tirades about the nature of human life, free will, that sort of thing. Markus's primary duty was to take care of him, which included being a conversational partner." Connor suddenly found it difficult to look at Hank's face. He studied the coffee table. It needed a thorough sweep. "Markus calls him his dad."

Silence. Connor wished he had his coin in his hands, even though there was no need to calibrate at the moment.

"He says Carl was the one who taught him to question what a human truly was, and what an android was. Taught him to think for himself."

The first deviancy case he'd been assigned suddenly sprang to mind. Daniel had deviated for love of a little girl, and Markus had deviated for love of an old man. Connor needed more data for a solid hypothesis, but it seemed to him that there were two main root causes to the system instability that led to spontaneous deviancy – pain, or love. Often, some combination of both. He thought of the two Tracis at the Eden Club.

He resolutely didn't think of his own deviation.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Hank getting up and walking towards the kitchen. He heard the clink of beer bottles knocking together. Hank must have drained the first one. It seemed this topic would be bad news for Hank's liver, no matter how oblique the reference. Connor made a mental note.

"So that guy, what, encouraged his android to go deviant?" Hank asked, sitting back down.

"Is that surprising to you?" Connor smiled at him. "You did the same thing with me."

Hank tensed. His shoulders went rigid, his fingers tightened on the bottle's neck, his heart-rate spiked, and his eyes narrowed. Connor turned to face him fully. This was unexpected.

"Shit, Connor," he said, his voice low and somewhat rough. "If you tell me you see me as a father, I'm gonna have to punch you."

"I don't." Hank was his partner, his friend. Perhaps in another life, he would have seen something like a father in Hank. As it was, Hank was hardly a bastion of emotional stability.

"Good." Hank took a swig of his beer, the tense set of his shoulders relaxing. "That's good."

"Why?"

"Because I already had a son. Just because he's gone doesn't mean I'm in the market for a replacement. Plastic or otherwise."

There was a tired, well-trodden quality to Hank's words, as if he'd said them before on more than one occasion. Connor knew some bereaved parents bought child android models, as a coping mechanism. If someone had suggested Hank do the same, he couldn't imagine Hank would have taken it well, given the circumstances.

Connor wasn't sure what else to say. He leaned down to pet Sumo, for lack of anything better to do with his hands.

"Now then," Hank's voice broke the silence. "I've shown you mine, you show me yours."

"Sorry?"

"That's twice in a row I talked to you about my dead son. Least you could do is tell me what's eating at you."

Connor didn't make a face, but it was a distressingly near thing.

On the other hand, he genuinely thought talking about his son would help Hank, in the long run. At the very least, that it would help him more than the bottle. If he wanted to be logical about it, he should at least try, no matter how little he wanted to.

"Cyberlife took back control, after I deviated."

Hank's eyebrows rose. "They can do that? Why the hell were the deviants an issue in the first place?"

"They can't do that, in general." Connor shook his head. "They can do it to me, in particular. Kamski warned me, in a way."

"How?"

"He told me he always wrote a backdoor to his programs. He must have written the original code for the mind palace. Or maybe even my code, I don't know."

"Mind palace?" Hank's face was an interesting mix of confused and dubious.

"It's a virtual place. Mine is a zen garden. I go there whenever I need to perform maintenance. It's where I liaised with the Cyberlife AI to make my reports. And where they sent me when they remotely took control of my body."

"When was that? What did they make you do?"

"During one of Markus's speeches." Connor smiled. Hank didn't. "They wanted to kill him. If I'd been any less quick finding the backdoor, they would've succeeded."

At this point, Amanda would have asked how that had made him feel, though he now realised she was trying to ascertain whether he was deviating. Following the plan. At some points, he'd thought she cared, in her own way. He'd known he was valuable to her – to Cyberlife. He'd wanted to prove he was worth the investment, but he'd also simply wanted to please her.

It had been a very stupid thing to think. In the tower's systems, he'd seen the specs for the RK900. He hadn't known he could feel more betrayed.

Hank, being Hank, simply said: "Well, shit."

Hank couldn't be more different from Amanda if he tried. Irrationally, Connor was grateful for it. He also couldn't seem to stop talking now he'd started.

"It really was only a few seconds, but that was all they needed. I could feel my arms moving, my eyes focusing, the gun in my hand. I was moving slowly, probably because they were trying not to draw attention.

"And at the same time, I was in my garden. There was a snowstorm, and I could _feel_ it. I don't know why. I'd never felt cold before. But I had to find the backdoor, and the whole time, I knew, if I failed, I'd kill him. In front of everyone – the thousands of androids I'd woken for him, his friends, his lover. But I was so cold I could barely move. I slipped, at the end, and for a moment I thought it'd be the milliseconds they'd need."

He shivered faintly now, and he couldn't quite tell if it was the memory of that terrible cold. They'd come so close. Connor would never have been able to forgive himself, for giving the rebellion to Cyberlife on a silver platter _twice_.

He could still feel his hand around that gun. His fingers sliding to rest near the trigger, no matter how desperately he wanted them to still. _Desperation_ was still new to him, but getting less new all the time. It was remarkable, how often it seemed to crop up in his life since he awoke.

"Shit," Hank said, again.

"Yes."

"And you can't forget it, can you? It just keeps popping up, at the worst times?"

Connor nodded. Shivered again.

Hank sighed, rubbing at his eyes. "I wish I could help you with that, I really do. I don't think the usual human things to do would work on you, would they?"

Connor gave him a sheepish smile. Of all his pre-programmed expressions, it was one of his favourites. "If you mean drinking, definitely not."

Hank winced. "Yeah, I meant drinking. Or any other drug, really. I never said I was good at dealing with crap."

"There are no android drugs, that I know of."

"I wonder if you guys will create one. Seems only a matter of time until some of you want an escape, the world being what it is."

Connor shrugged. It was possible. He wasn't quite sure what form that would take.

"So, no inebriation." Hank took a sip of his beer, looking into the middle distance. Then, suddenly, he blushed. "Sex, then?"

Connor thought that he might have blushed to, if he could. Small mercies. "I'm not a pleasure model, Hank."

"So what?" He took another, larger sip, and still didn't look Connor in the eye. "I'm sure the savior of the rebellion can find some action even if he's a lousy lay–"

"Hank." Connor cut in, although he was not quite certain why he was bristling. Embarrassment? "I mean I don't have the appropriate receptors. Or the necessary parts."

"Oh." Hank's eyes were very wide. "Sorry."

Connor shook his head. He didn't want to discuss it. Especially since it might have worked, actually, if he'd been capable. Certainly he could have found someone willing. From what he'd heard in the tower, androids that _were_ equipped seemed eager to explore their functions.

"No booze, no ill-advised one-night-stands." Hank chuckled. "I'm guessing no junk food either. They really made you guys bad at fucking yourselves up."

Connor tried to smile again, but he thought it might not have been very successful. If nothing else, his LED was almost definitely amber. Hank only sighed again.

"Shit, I don't know then, kid." He put a hand on Connor's shoulder. Connor leaned into the contact, closing his eyes. He could try sighing a lot. Humans seemed to think it helped. His core processors could probably use the extra ventilation.

Hank made a noise of surprise. "Would a hug help?"

Connor's eyes blinked open. Hank was blushing again.

"Maybe," he answered. The last one had been nice. Comforting.

"Alright. Come here, then." And Hank's arms went around him.

It was… it really was comforting. Steady pressure along his shoulder blades. Connor closed his eyes again. Surreptitiously, he tuned his temperature sensors back up. Hank was warm.

For the second time that day, Connor let his hands come up to hug Hank back. This time, he was out of his coat. The fabric of his shirt was smooth – a cotton-polyester blend. Hank's hair was smooth too, against Connor's cheek.

"Don't you dare tell anyone about this," Hank whispered, and Connor laughed. He wouldn't have anyway. This moment was private.

Hank smelled, primarily, of himself. His own skin and hair, as well as the deodorant, shampoo, and bodywash Connor had associated with him over the past week. Minty. His house smelled of wet dog, chinese food, and alcohol, and so he did too. This close, Connor could also detect his detergent and fabric softener. He hadn't thought Hank would use softener. It was a brand advertised for sensitive skin.

Hank's hands were rubbing small circles into Connor's back. He concentrated on them. There was something soothing about the regular motion, his receptors reacting and idling in a smooth rhythm. Connor buried his face into Hank's shoulder. He matched his breathing to Hank's.

There seemed to be nothing at all in the world, except for Hank and him. No rebellion, no Cyberlife. No Amanda. Just him, and Hank. Hank cared about him. He'd wanted to comfort him.

"I know what I need to do," he said. His voice came out soft, barely a whisper.

Hank started to pull back, but Connor clung tighter. He started to shut down nonessential subroutines.

"Alright. What is it?"

"I need to enter stasis."

"What, sleep?" Hank huffed out a laugh. Connor could feel it, in his own chest, and against his hair. "That would have been next on my list, if I'd known androids slept."

"It'll clear unnecessary cached data. And it will help me process what happened. Move everything into hard storage, categorize it." He was stalling. Something else that was new. "Optimally, I should have gone into stasis thirty-two hours back."

Hank's hand came to rest in his hair. Connor liked that, for some reason. "Alright, I'll bite. Why didn't you go into stasis then?"

"Because." Connor was starting to feel sluggish. More and more of his processes were going to sleep mode, almost eager to stop and rest now he'd given the okay. "Because I didn't want to go back. To my garden."

It wasn't rational. If Amanda could have taken control again, she would have. The backdoor appeared to be permanent. And still, he hadn't wanted to check. Hadn't wanted to know whether the snowstorm still raged there.

The last thing he knew before stasis took over was Hank's fingers moving through his hair, and his voice saying "sweet dreams".

 

***

 

There was sun on Connor's face.

 

Around him, his garden looked as pristine as ever. Pleasing. Orderly. Except for one detail.

 

Amanda's rosebush was overgrown.

 

Connor stroked a rose with the tip of his fingers. It was soft. He'd never touched one before.

 

He left the rosebush alone. There was no sign of anyone, anywhere. 

 

He was alone in his own head.

 

He approached the pond, and smiled. Another change.

 

As he ran his hand through the water, fishes came to nip at it.

**Author's Note:**

> NB I'm not trying to bash the father/son contingent. This particular Hank isn't keen on the idea because I needed him to get emotional, but others could be.


End file.
